


when you mix your voice with others you are caught like a fish on a hook

by allium_cepa



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Animal Abuse (mentioned), Bullying, Exhibitionism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allium_cepa/pseuds/allium_cepa
Summary: Henry and Patrick writhe against each other, stuck on their own shared carousel ride; Beverly, from the border of the front lines, watches.
Relationships: Henry Bowers/Patrick Hockstetter, Patrick Hockstetter & Beverly Marsh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	when you mix your voice with others you are caught like a fish on a hook

**Author's Note:**

> This blends together elements of both the movie and the book. It takes place in the movie timeline, and everyone is written to be roughly the age they are in the movie (if not older). Everything takes place pre-Pennywise.
> 
> I find the potential dynamics between these three to be very interesting, with a lot about their relationships being open to interpretation, since they interact very little in canon.
> 
> As in the canon, there are a lot of toxic relationships between characters, as well as period-typical/internalised homophobia, child abuse, bullying, and some the fucked-up things that Patrick does in the books are also mentioned.
> 
> Apologies if there are any grammar/spelling mistakes, and if the events don't seem to line up with canonical ones/if the characters seem ooc.

1.

If Beverly had to pinpoint the moment when the world stared collapsing around her, she would choose the day when some lone fire-starter had set off the rumour that she was a slut. She didn’t know where or when exactly it had all started, because she hadn’t been there to witness it; she had just ran into it one day, in a cramped classroom that smelled like winter, where accusing glances chilled her to the bone. People had gawked at her like she was an unpleasant bug, revelling in her wide-eyed stare as confusion brewed under her feverishly flushed skin and as she picked at the frayed threads on her sleeves, heart fluttering wildly. She had wanted to melt into the floor.

Before then, there had never been a spotlight shining on her as it did on someone like Bill Denbrough. Everyone knew _the stuttering freak,_ and Beverly had regarded him with pity, faintly aware that he didn’t deserve this, any of it; but under it there was the burning relief that she wasn’t like _that_. She had blended in with the other kids from Lower Main Street, and Henry Bowers didn’t know her name when he chased her down Up-Mile Hill, sending her zig-zagging next through the narrow side streets before they were spat out into the Barrens, wading through the Kenduskeag. He might run after her until he became bored or winded, rarely catching her back when he still moved like his body was too big for him. If he or one of his friends got lucky, they might trip her and let her sprawl harshly, winded, dissolving into the mud. But Beverly was stubbornly determined, body pumped full of adrenaline as she shot up, legs and palms stinging, dashing away to hide. And when they would run ahead, she could limp her way home, to where her mother greeted her warmly and her father sometimes mustered a smile above his beer bottle.

That all changed after the insults evolved to _slut_ and _whore_ and _skank._ She heard them so much that they didn’t even sound real anymore, echoing and bouncing in her head every day with hysterical energy. And she _knew_ that she should have just ignored it, like she did when her father went on his spiels, the ones that had gotten more and more rabid after her mother left; kept her eyes down and her ears shut like she did had when they called her _dirty_ and _poor._ But it couldn’t have been harder. Every time the chorus reached her, it was like a switch flipped and she _denied_ every single boy that they tried to pin on her, and she didn’t even know who half of them _were –_ though of course that never mattered to them – and went on her pleading sprees of _it’s not even true_ and _please don’t tell my father._ And it just made them laugh and do it again, again, again; and then that whole mess just gripped its dirty palms around her and never let go. And then she became the Marsh girl who would do _it_ with any boy.

And it might still have all been fine if Henry Bowers, who was a _bloodhound_ for moments like these, hadn’t started jeering it after her every time he saw her. He’d now grown comfortable in his body, and now when he would chase her through the streets, fast and strong, he would catch up every time. And every time Beverly smacked into the ground like a felled boulder, he would spit his insults straight in her face while his friends watched on, while what felt like everyone in Derry watched on, and she would hold back her tears while they laughed behind her cruelly. But after this she would stumble her way home to that oppressive fog her father seemed to radiate, clogging up the light from the windows, settled into the sagging couch, smelling like tiredness and disappointment as he sighed out; _fallen over again, Bevvie? Every time I see you, you have a new scrape on your knees._ Narrowing his eyes at her rumpled blouse, her tousled hair. _You haven’t been running around with boys, have you, Bevvie?_ The same chants echoing in her head, _please don’t let anyone have told you yet, daddy._ Then that pause where he shook his head, sighed wearily, and repeated the mantra; _I worry about you, Bevvie, I really do._

_\- - -_

Beverly did know, however, where the other rumour had come from, the one that would go on to cling to her and follow her like a bad smell, because it had been screeched right in her face the morning that Henry and her crossed paths in the corridor. He was entirely nonchalant as he approached her, until her back hit the wall.

“Beverly,” he greeted casually. She straightened her back, ready to sprint away at a moment’s notice. But he had never been the type to try anything too serious at school, at least not after the teachers had figured out that the only way to make him stop beating up people on school grounds was to threaten to phone his father. Though they only seemed to notice every tenth time that it happened. But she still wondered what he wanted from her with apprehension, her skin prickling.

He put his hand against the wall and leaned over her, shrouding her in shadow. He was so close she could count the individual eyelashes and freckles on his face. She could see the frayed edges of his collar, and the way the weak, thin fabric barely covered the prominent bones under his dirty skin. He smelled of earth, stale cigarettes and sweat, and a deeper, more sour stench, like clothes that had dried badly and been worn too long. Beverly recognised it from her father’s work uniforms. He pulled chewing-gum from his pocket, and she knew if she stayed here any longer, that fruity smell would start to permeate their shared prison.

“What do you want?” she retorted, narrowing her eyes and tilting her chin up. His friends had moved to crowd around her. People started to look at them.

Henry didn’t say, his face breaking into a smirk. Beverly looked down at his teeth. They were crooked, browning at the roots. At least one was missing. That smile spread, infectious, to the faces of his friends.

“What?” she repeated, tone demanding, but that was only because she had nothing to lose here. She would get whatever she deserved after school no matter what.

In the end, he never ended up telling her _what_ , because just as his face screwed up angrily to respond, a shrill voice, high and young, sounded to their left; “I heard you fucked her, Bowers, is that true?”

Both Beverly and Henry veered their faces to the direction of the sound, but the yeller had blended back into the crowd, and there was nothing there but a wall of blank faces watching them closely, cloaked in deathly, expectant silence.

When Henry whipped his neck back to face Beverly, she saw his face had twisted into a snarled mask of rage and confusion. She felt the same emotion rising in her chest, and her eyes widened in fear. _Don’t fucking do it, Bowers,_ she screamed in her mind, eyes scanning his face in panic, the silence between them bloated. _Damn it, fucking damn it,_ she thought to herself, _not this._ She should have known this would happen, should have been expecting it, because that was the sort of thing that happened when someone like Henry chased someone like her though secluded wooded areas of the forests. That’s the sort of thing the whole school sees and _talks about_. And she knew that Henry, for all his reactionary and dedicated anger that seemed committed to never letting _anything, anyone_ get away, was _too fucking dense_ to realise that _of course_ this was inevitable. His friends weren’t; she saw the expectant, waiting grin on Patrick’s face, the light in his eyes contrasting the nervous, tense glances of Vic’s and Belch’s.

 _Please say no please say no, please go off howling as you chase that kid down the corridor, or even punch me I don’t care just let me GO,_ she willed. He wasn’t some random boy from another class that she didn’t even know, a nobody-of-the week, he was _Henry fucking BOWERS_ , and if _that_ rumour caught wind there was no way of hiding it from her father; of course he would know about something like that. Because everyone knew Henry Bowers.

But even if he _hadn’t_ already been opening his mouth to say _fuck yes_ just because he could, that look in her eyes probably just cemented it, and he grinned again, mouth spread impossibly wide, baring his teeth. And her stomach dropped at his sheer _happiness_ at being able to torture her like this, and she heard Patrick hiss approvingly.

“’Course I did, how the fuck ‘d you hear about _that_?” Henry called out to the crowd, hand dropping from the wall beside Beverly’s head, the oppressive smell of him fading away as he stepped away from her, and all she could do was close her eyes in despair.

\- - -

Then there was what she had seen at the junkyard.

It had been no surprise to Beverly, that _everyone_ seemed to know her after that. Even after the initial onslaught from the onlookers lost its punch, there was always an odd sense of being watched. Though she supposed it a miracle that the rumours hadn’t reached her father yet. Maybe his hospital nightshift was some sort of strange, silent purgatory; or maybe he simply didn’t put stock in the vague gossip. Either way, choking uncertainty coated their every interaction as she double-checked every word he coaxed out of her, knowing one wrong step could tip her off-balance, tumbling to certain death. He would watch her closely, eyes sharp and accusatory even when cloudy from fatigue and drink. _You’re_ _getting older, Bevvie,_ he would tell her, right before the interrogating slew of questions, _I need to make sure you’re not up to no good_. He surrounded her like a cloak of discomfort and panic as she felt her body changing, growing in directions she couldn’t reconcile. Feeling that shame and bitter resentment as she stared down at her red-stained underwear, her nipples poking through her shirt. He would say how Beverly was shaping up to look just like her mother, and her heart would suddenly ache as she was reminded of her naturally soothing presence. Now gone, faded away from her like the paint on her bedroom wall. Stained and peeling.

It was that atmosphere that drove her out of the flat whenever it got warmer. She would wave goodbye to her father, _I’ll_ _come back long before dark, don’t worry, daddy_ , and the weight would lift off her shoulders as soon as she clicked the door shut. That day was amazingly hot; sunlight flooded the skies to blaze down on her exposed skin. By the time she made her way to the Kenduskeag, sweat gathered upon her upper lip and there was an uncomfortable dampness under her arms. She continued along to the empty town dump, and settled in shaded thick greenery that flanked the waste-ground filled with abandoned cars.

She was sitting in tall thickets of comfrey, surrounded by their clean, heady smell that was so different to the gas exhaust fumes and sewer stench that plagued central Derry. Bees buzzed and birds squawked loudly above her, rattling through dry leaves. The ground she sat on was so cold it felt damp, and she felt frozen despite the hotness of the day.

She sat in isolation for a long time before she heard the boys’ voices ringing through the winding alleyways and small mountains of rubbish, so boisterously loud that they could not have cared if anyone heard them. She didn’t recognise them until they approached the lines of cars facing her, but after that there was no mistaking Henry and Patrick’s forms.

In that moment, she felt that she should have been more afraid of them than she was. After the rumours about her and Henry propagated their way around the school, his demeanour towards her had become extremely sleazy, exaggerated to an almost cartoonish level. There was a marked decrease in his crazed chases, his only goal now seeming to be to intimidate with discomfort. Patrick looked like he revelled in this development, adapting naturally; but Vic and Belch looked more reluctant. Yet today, she felt no fear, but instead a sense of power, knowing she could watch them unseen safely from her nest of plants. So, she stayed put, adjusting herself to sit on her shins, eyes following them as they settled on the hood of a badly rusted car, only a few meters away from her.

She heard Patrick offering Henry a cigarette, lighting it for him before doing the same for himself. Henry puffed around the white stick, sighing contently. He inhaled and exhaled as fingers tapped against the metal of the hood restlessly. Patrick seemed much calmer, scuffing his foot at the ground aimlessly. Eventually, he blew his smoke into Henry’s face, who flinched away fiercely, flicking his hand at the other’s face _._ Patrick rubbed where it had hit him, shooting Henry a low glare, but it didn’t seem to hurt. In fact, as Beverly looked closer, he had a strangely hungry expression on his face, staring at Henry with heavily lidded eyes and licking his lips. It was one she had seen on the men around town as they stared at her. But she had never seen someone look at a boy, let alone a boy like Henry, like that.

Henry noticed it, too. “Quit it, Hockstetter,” he barked. Or maybe he was just still pissed from the smoke.

Patrick looked away, focusing back on the cigarette, leaning against the roof of the car, bending his leg at the knee to rest his foot on the dented front bumper. “Sure. Though I bet you liked it.” His tone was teasing. His cheeks hollowed deliberately around the cigarette. Beverly felt unsettled. She felt like she was missing something.

And that was when Patrick tilted his head to look past Henry, right in Beverly’s direction, and she felt her chest tighten, suddenly quite light-headed. His eyes were like tiny missiles aimed at her, and for a split second she ludicrously thought of the ground in front of her catching fire. _He couldn’t have seen me,_ she though, panicky, _the bushes are so dense here_. But even if he had, there way Beverly could leave now without catching Henry’s attention. With the way he was violently sucking the life out of his cigarette, foot bouncing angrily against the muddy ground, he seemed to be in a foul mood; there was no telling what he would do if he caught her now. Besides, she wanted to see what would happen next.

He moved his gaze away eventually, settling it back on Henry, expression amused. Realising he had gotten no answer, he repeated himself. “Didn’t you? Henry?”

“What?” Henry sounded irritated and unfocused. He was gripping the edges of the hood of the car, his arms rigid.

Patrick giggled lightly. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

Henry veered around forcefully, bringing them face to face. “The fuck are you talking about?” he spat into Patrick’s face, who didn’t even blink when the spittle landed on him, expression more interested than afraid. Henry stepped closer until they were only several inches apart, and anyone else would have leaned back further, until they were bent flat against the metal and Henry could stare down threateningly. But Patrick remained straight, and Beverly felt a sick sense of admiration at his sheer lack of self-preservation. He bit his lip, his cocked leg swinging back and forth coquettishly, hitting Henry’s hip. Dread was building in her stomach.

“I asked you a _question_.” Henry growled. Fury was leeching out of his pores, his face twisted.

“Calm down, jeez,” Patrick stubbed his cigarette out beside him. “Is one little remark enough to get you so riled up? What’s got you so goddamn _mad_?” He laid a pale hand lightly above the sinewy muscle of Henry’s arm. It seemed like a gentle caress, but there was clear threatening intent in the action. Beverly wanted to shout for him to _stop,_ that he was going _too far,_ and couldn’t he see that he was going to get socked in the jaw or ribs if he didn’t stop soon? It was like watching a kid poke at a hissing cat.

But Patrick didn’t stop. Beverly watched in horror as he slightly hitched up the front of Henry’s top. On his hip was a huge fresh bruise, pink with a thick purple outline. Beverly winced in sympathy. Patrick peered at it in fascination. Henry clenched his fists.

“Your old man does that to you, huh?” Patrick muttered quietly.

“You’d better get your hands off me if you don’t want to lose them, flamer,” came the harsh, hissed response. He ripped the fabric from Patrick’s hands to cover himself. Patrick put his hands up in mock surrender.

Henry grabbed one of those arms, twisting it to the side, pointing at something Beverly couldn’t see. “How’d you get _that_ , huh? You messing about with those damned cats again?” His voice had a threatening bite to it.

Patrick scoffed, wrenching it free. “You know I don’t do that anymore. That’s boring.”

“Then how’d you get those scratches?”

“And, besides, _this,”_ Patrick wrapped his arms around Henry’s neck, ignoring him, “is _way_ more fun.” Henry yanked himself away from the touch and, without fanfare, punched Patrick hard in the stomach.

Beverly breathed a sigh of relief as the strange tension between them melted away into something more familiar. She watched Patrick’s hands fall as he doubled over, quickly retaliating by shoving at Henry’s shoulders, who caught himself before he could stumble, swinging back and grinning. The punch was blocked, the attacking arm grabbed and bent painfully. She watched them wrestle gleefully over the hood of the car, before one lost his balance, and both fell to the ground.

They rolled around in a frenzy. At first, Henry was in control, pummelling Patrick’s raised arms. He accepted the beating without desperation or defeated resignation. Instead, he waited for Henry to let his guard down, and then thrush him back squarely by the chest, quickly flipping their positions and toppling them backwards into a thatch of stinging nettles.

“Watch what you’re doing, asshole!” Henry yelled, trying to scramble to clearer ground. “Those fucking _hurt_!” He rubbed at his shoulder, and Beverly could see that it was already red with stings.

“Sorry,” Patrick replied without sincerity, smirking. His arms were similarly inflamed. He let Henry scoot away from beneath him, but didn’t relinquish his position. He didn’t initiate any attacks, instead only catching the fists that struck at him, pinning them to the ground.

It continued until Henry’s struggles spiralled into tired desperation. Beverly watched as he eventually went limp under Patrick’s body. Her legs were going numb.

“Fuck you,” he spat.

Patrick exhaled a soft laugh, biting his lip lewdly before bowing his back to bring his face closer to Henry’s. “You’ve given up?” he asked, a sneer in his voice.

Henry writhed violently once again, as if to show otherwise. “I never said that,” he bit back, teeth gritted, a strained lilt to his voice. But then he was still.

Silence passed between them as they stared intensely at each other. Henry looked like he was about to throw up, his chest heaving up and down heavily. Patrick was motionless, breathing through parted lips. Beverly’s fingers jittered from anticipation, and she felt like there was a vice closing around her windpipe.

Then, as if it was just the next natural step, Patrick swooped his face down and kissed Henry solidly on the mouth.

Beverly gasped loudly before quickly covering her mouth. This was an outcome that she would _never,_ not in her wildest dreams, have predicted. She couldn’t believe her eyes

It wasn’t a gentle kiss; they were like beasts gnashing at each other. Henry’s chest arched upwards, his arms and legs tensed with ferocity. Beverly watched, fascinated, as they ground their hips together, fingernails raking against exposed skin, moving fluidly. And when they parted after a long time into a hushed pause, breathing heaving in unison, she could tell that they just weren’t breathless from the exertion.

“You’re hard,” she heard Patrick say, loudly and clearly.

“So are you,” Henry retorted defensively. They sat up, bodies pressed close and rocking together. Henry’s mouth fell open, panting like a dog, face red and hair messy. Patrick bared his long neck as his head turned to look in Beverly’s direction, his eyes dark and glazed. Mud smeared their clothes. Her breath caught in her throat.

Patrick looked away, focusing his attention back on Henry, who was moaning lightly. Beverly marvelled at how girlish he sounded. He grabbed Patrick by the hair, pulling him roughly towards his own neck. She watched Patrick suck at the skin there, moving to pull Henry’s top off.

Beverly’s eyes widened when she saw Henry’s exposed front. She saw ribs jutting harshly from the discoloured skin, covered in bruises and welts. Worse was his back, lashed with harsh red lines. As if realising he was being watched, Henry’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed at Patrick’s arm.

“Why’d you do that?” he snarled, face screwing up cruelly. “You know I hate that.”

Patrick chuckled. “But you’re so _pretty_ like this,” he teased. He moved his head back down, pouting when his face was slapped away. “Aww, _Henry,”_ he whined, “you’re so _mean_.”

Henry shoved him away viciously, standing up and pulling his shirt back on. Patrick scrambled up to join him, and Beverly saw, for the first time the, the obvious bulges in both of their jeans. She felt a strange disgust at the sight; but her body betrayed her, her mouth drying up. Despite the fact that it was _them._

“C’mon Henry, I’m sorry, you know I didn’t mean it!” he insisted. Henry regarded him with distain, but the arousal was still obvious in his deep breaths and badly flushed cheeks.

Patrick approached tentatively. He must have seen what Beverly was seeing. “Tell you what, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh, yeah? What’re you gonna do?” Henry put his hands on his hips.

Patrick cast his eyes to the side, expression impish. “I could suck your cock?”

Beverly inhaled sharply, as did Henry, who stepped closer, chin tilted up in a gesture of intimidation. “Yeah? You’d do that for me, you faggot?”

Nothing moved for a second, the two of them freezing like statues. Beverly suddenly became very aware of her own body; her fingers dug into the earth and her heartbeat thrummed so loud in her ears that she was convinced they could hear it. But they seemed completely engrossed in each other, the space between them crackling with electricity, hot with their panting breaths.

Patrick didn’t bother replying, just smirked as he sank to his knees, looking up pointedly as he unceremoniously shoved down Henry’s pants.

Beverly watched Henry’s cock jut straight out. Her eyes were wide. She could hardly breathe; it was the first time she had seen a boy _there_ , and she felt like she should look away. She watched as Henry’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, his mouth tightening into a hard line. Patrick looked ecstatic, moving to rest his hand on Henry’s pale thigh before it was swatted away. He stuck his tongue out, slowly, carefully, and started licking at the flushed head.

Henry breathed in deeply, jaw tightening. He dug his fingers into his own jeans, watching Patrick. Beverly though it must have been quite a sight, to see someone as tall and intimidating as him down on their knees for you. He pressed himself closer to Henry’s leg, straddling one of his engineer’s boots. He was taking his time.

“Hurry up,” Henry urged, the deepness and desperation in his voice surprising Beverly, “don’t be such a damn prick tease.” Patrick looked up, locking their eyes together, before he took Henry fully into his mouth in one motion.

Henry groaned loudly, not breaking eye contact, mouth falling open. “Fuckin’ _Christ,”_ he breathed. Patrick kept moving his head and his mouth, eyes firmly fixed upward; Henry’s hips kept stuttering to meet him halfway. The strange wet sound of their shared movements fascinated Beverly. Henry kept moaning filthily, the bliss obvious in his breathy tone. He was loud; of course he was, he thought they were alone.

Beverly found herself lost in her thoughts. There was _something_ about the way that Henry seemed lost in ecstasy that, despite the cocktail of hatred and fear she felt towards him, just captured her. She felt her heart pounding in her inner thighs, head spinning with nervousness and excitement. For a short, insane moment, she imagined herself in Patrick’s position. Would she enjoy it?

 _On his knees with another boy’s cock in his mouth._ Revulsion gripped Beverly. She felt that there was something wrong in what they were doing, without even being able to articulate it. She didn’t even know it was possible to do something like _that_ and not immediately be struck down for it. Patrick being queer didn’t surprise her, not really; but Henry _certainly_ did. How it was possible that instigator of countless violent homophobic crusades, not to mention with a father like he had, was _here,_ seemed unfathomable. She couldn’t imagine he would be too happy seeing his son now.

She was torn from her thoughts by the wet _pop_ of Patrick sliding off Henry’s cock. Henry whined, continuing his thrusts into the empty air, annoyance crossing his features. “What the _fuck,_ Hockstetter, I was about to come!” he shouted. It was something Beverly had heard about; abstractly, without any real understanding of what it meant. She was enthralled, desperate to see what _this_ looked like.

Patrick’s chin was streaked in spit, his cheeks red. He was palming himself between his legs, looking up darkly. “I wish you would fuck me, Henry” he whispered, tone lewd. He ran his hand up under his own shirt, baring his pale stomach. Beverly’s mind flashed with images of something like _that_ , and her head felt lighter. Suddenly, for the first time since they had wandered into the junkyard, she wanted to leave. But she couldn’t look away.

Henry’s eyes closed, a pained expression crossing his face. “ _No,”_ he answered, voice quavering. He sounded wrecked. “That’s what _faggots_ do,” he added, by way of justification. He gripped Patrick’s shoulder, digging his nails in, trying to guide him back. “Come _on_!” he pressed again.

A brief spurt of exasperation flashed across Patrick’s face. He pulled out of Henry’s grasp to stand, facing the other boy, unzipping his own trousers. He wrapped a large hand around both their own cocks, pressing face close to Henry’s ear. “That’s not _true,_ guys do it with birds all the time,” he retorted petulantly. His hand started moving.

Henry snorted, his eyes closing. “Yeah, but you’re not a girl. I’m not going to fuck a boy.” He breathed shallowly.

Patrick nosed at his neck lightly; Henry pulled away. “But you do _this_ with me.” As if to prove his point, he pulled hard with his hand. Henry’s sputter sent a shockwave through Beverly.

“That’s different.”

“But think of how _good_ it would feel.” Patrick’s hand moved faster. “It’d be all _tight_ and _wet_ and you’d pull my hair and fuck my brains out –“

“Shut the _fuck_ up. I’m no queer, I won’t do that,” Henry insisted, his voice shaky. Patrick watched him like a hawk, eyes blazing excitedly.

“But _this_ is queer, too,” Henry shot a warning look at him through his haze. “you’re doing faggot shit with me, aren’t you?”

“That’s not the _same,_ ” Henry’s tone was desperate. “That’s the sort of shit that, if my dad saw me doing that, he’d kill me.”

“He’d do that if he saw you doing this. And he’ll never _know,_ not if we do it here. You might as well go all the way.” Patrick leaned closer than ever. Beverly’s chest and face felt like they were on fire. “You know you _want_ to.”

Henry didn’t even seem to be listening, swallowing hard, hips moving frantically. He didn’t say anything, but Beverly knew, simply _knew_ , that he was about to reach his orgasm. He looked lost, staring into space, and the look on his face was more of anguish than pleasure.

Patrick seemed to sense it too, and sank back down to his knees, wrapping his hand around Henry’s cock and stroking him with violent ferocity, watching as he flung his head back. Beverly understood a split second before it happened, what Patrick intended to do, and then Henry came with a choked gasp – all over his face.

She watched Patrick’s hand slow while Henry’s stomach spasmed and his hips twitched. He stopped quickly, his face burning as he pulled his pants back up. Patrick’s other hand started pulling at himself, and he licked at the come on his face as he approached his own orgasm. He stared after Henry, who trailed away to sit beyond the car, out of Beverly’s view.

It was over. It took her a while to snap out of her shocked stupor, staring stupidly after them as her body caught up her brain, realising that this was all. It had been so sudden, almost bitterly so. She realised, then, that this was her first chance to get away – unless she wanted to stick around for however long it would take them to vacate. She quickly scooped up her things and dashed away quietly, moving as quickly as her overheated, restless body could handle.

She didn’t stop until she reached the banks of the Kenduskeag, far enough away from the boys for her fear to dissipate. As the distance between them increased, her blood-pulsing arousal faded, her mind grounding itself back to reality as she absorbed what she had seen. Already, it seemed tinged with hazy unreality, like she was trying to recall the details of a dream. She realised for the first time, with vague disgust, that her underwear had an uncomfortable, slimy wetness within it, and that she had sweated all the way down to her bra, the smell of it strong. She sighed, making her way home with resigned calmness, her mind still somewhere else.




When Patrick came down from his own orgasm, he slunk over to where Henry was sitting, legs up to his chest, resting his head on his arms, still flushed. He wiped the rest of the come around his mouth off, smearing his chin with dirt, and looked behind him; no sign of Beverly. She must have had the wits to leave before Henry came back to his senses.

He offered Henry a cigarette, trying to calm him down. After times like these, it was a 50-50 chance as to whether Henry’s skin would tense with fury as he grabbed a bat, or knife, or cherry bomb, and went out to rage his frustration out on this little town; or if he would curl into himself, gazing with blank eyes into some impenetrable distance, his brain in no man’s land. Either way, it made a great show for Patrick; but it was far too hot to chase after Henry today if he went on a rampage. It was easier to keep him cool. But that was only today; usually, he wanted to be entertained, and he knew to keep watch after they would rut against each other in the woods somewhere in the farmlands, when he could watch Henry stomp away to his own house, red-faced and indignant, slamming the door, clattering away inside, waking Butch if he wasn’t passed out from the drink. Patrick would watch from the shadows, slowly getting hard again, not going home as he listened to the racket. And if that wasn’t happening, he had no qualms about leaving the quivering boy behind in the silence of the forest shadows.

The cigarette was snatched and inhaled rapidly, Henry scratching at his arms fit to tear into them. Patrick watched the sweaty skin of his neck rise up and down shallowly, wanting to bite there badly. He only tore his eyes away after a long, long pause, looking down to nudge at rocks with his feet.

Henry hissed as his fingernails created deeper and deeper track marks. He cleared his throat.

“Not a word of this to anyone, yeah? You know that, right?”

Same shit every single time _._ From the first time: _you breathe a word of this to anyone, and I’m telling about the fridge._ Blackmail probably wasn’t the best method for forming a longstanding contract, but he would take what he could get. He’d nodded, ruefully. Probably meant it sincerely, back then; mostly because, if he didn’t, his already sparse supply of animals would dry up faster than he could blink. Now he just nodded because he should. It was a load of crap; Henry had more to lose if this got out than Patrick ever would. So what if people found out about the fridge? It wasn’t like he cared anymore. And he’d never be so dumb as to jeopardise _this,_ the best thing he’d done for _years._

“And stop that shit about getting me to fuck you. It’s not gonna happen, you freak.”

It would, of course; not now, probably not for months or even years, and maybe not exactly in the way Patrick would want it, but it _would_. He’d just have to make Henry think it was all his idea and, more importantly, that it _wasn’t queer;_ if he had to pick his favourite thing about the boy, it was his tendency to desperately cling to comforting self-delusions when things weren’t nice and simple. _He probably still thinks his dad loves him._ He’d somehow managed to convince himself that getting Patrick on his knees wasn’t gay, and that they only were here for _mutual benefit,_ all for the same end goal in mind; which was some mad thought that made Patrick giggle. It _was_ true, but naturally not in a way that Henry would _ever_ admit to himself.

And he _would_ get Henry to fuck him. And stroke him and suck him off. But not now, so he just nodded in agreement once more.

“Good,” Henry responded, with a terse exhale. His face was screwed in something like pain. “Glad we’re on the same page.” The way he gritted his teeth emphasised his jawline. All Patrick he wanted to do was get out his lighter and hold it there to watch the delicate skin bubble and blister; take out his knife and bore down to the yellowy fat, grisly redness and bone, until he reached the thick arterial meat pumping away and could marvel at it. But he just traced the thin skin above the blood vessel with a cold finger until Henry swatted at him distractedly.

The thing that he found so interesting about Henry, was that his delusions didn’t come from a place of genuine stupidity. Being resistant to his circumstances was just a result of his upbringing, that had unsurprisingly leeched into other parts of his life; and anything that could cause him to teeter from that delicate balance of _fine_ into _fucking hellish_ was quickly buried deep inside of himself, smothered down there with self-loathing and insecurity. There was at least some security in building these bulwarks, those which were let down only in those violent moments when he would scratch and kick at kids smaller than him, or when the retching shame he felt when they writhed together became visible on his face, simply _pouring_ out of him. And how fucking much did Patrick _love_ tearing those walls down, breathing heavily and grinning when he watched the resulting carnage ensue.

Patrick had been proud of himself for figuring all that out. It hadn’t been all him – he shouldn’t give himself too much credit. It had been back when Henry would lie under him in the sweltering heat of the summer, and Patrick would be _pushy,_ would prod at those gaping wounds in his mind; stick his fingers in as Henry’s voice got more and more desperate somewhere above his head, _knock it off_ – gasping silence as Henry struggled for breath, grasping at the pebbles under them as if he could dig up some control there. Patrick suddenly finding himself reeling from pain, Henry scrambling away with a crazed look in his eyes, fear having sapped his arousal, and he probably didn’t even _recognise_ Patrick (who was sporting the biggest boner of his life). Now getting up and walking away shakily, his eyes watery, leaving Patrick behind, who was stuck with sudden fear that he might have scared the other boy away permanently. But he wasn’t that impulsive anymore. Long gone were the days when strange schemes were carried out with no foresight, leaving behind obvious, conclusive evidence like some amateur. He could see the underlying machinery of the world now _much_ more clearly, and he never did that again. What good was a toy that ran away from you?

The cigarette was finished; Henry threw it on the ground, grinding it with his foot. He stared into the distance, at the high, scorching sun that made everything shimmer and melt. The silence stretched on. Patrick found himself getting bored.

Besides, it was so much more satisfying when Henry came to him on his own, the vague shadow of a tough mask sliding away as exaltation coloured his features. The poor boy chased pleasure against his own better judgement; rolling around together out there in the fields, metres away from Henry’s own backyard and Butch’s threatening presence; in the strange artificial light of the Hockstetters’ garage, his mother only separated from them by a thin ceiling. Out here, where anyone could make their way; he supposed someone like Beverly seeing them had been truly inevitable. They were lucky no one had caught them so far, what with Henry being so _occupied_ with tearing away at Patrick’s clothes, ripping painfully at his own fingernails as he groped at the thick jeans on his thighs, half in fight, half in desperation.

He noticed Henry wincing as he brought himself up to his own feet. That stirred an idea in him.

“What’d you do to make Butch beat on you like that?”

He liked the times after Butch the best. Henry would stand straight, body taunt like string from rage, aware of all the eyes suddenly on him. Vic and Belch had used to try and calm him down, ground him off the anger high. Patrick found that sort of thing mind-numbingly boring. He could be relied on to harness the emotions into a more productive way, get Henry yelling along to the rushes of wind as they sped down the streets, get him to push Patrick up against the trees at the Barrens and kiss him breathless; before long, he would get iron pulsing in his ears to obscure all other thoughts. And if all that failed, he could at least stare with fascination Henry’s unresponsive form.

There had only been one deviation from the norm, during the one of the worst years that the Bowers farm had ever had, when Henry would turn up at the junkyard shattered, arms and face mottled with purple constellations, too tired to stand. It had been one of those nights that Patrick had heard the intermittent tattoo of rocks on his bedroom window, looked out to see Henry shivering in the chilled August night, staring up pleadingly; Patrick padded his way blearily to the garage, restless, where he met the shrunken figure. And they threw themselves at the sofa, where he could get a better look at Henry’s bloodshot eyes, hear his rapid breathing and smell the sweat and dirt that followed him everywhere. Patrick didn’t even get any words out when the tears started leaking, and Henry buried his face in Patrick’s neck, curling at his lap, making pained breathy sounds. He’d waited for _something_ to change, staring limply around the garage as his eyes adjusted to the dark. But nothing did. When he asked what happened to him, Henry just sniffed harder, curling into a foetal position.

“Butch got you good, didn’t he?” he pried, guessing. Henry stilled; nodded almost imperceptibly, burrowing deeper into the darkness and heat of Patrick’s neck. And he got it, then, then, that under that shield of all the violence and angst and desperate thirst, at the root of it all, was _this_ , this was the cause _;_ and he whispered into the night about how Henry was a _good boy,_ how _you don’t deserve this,_ and _I’ll protect you, make sure that asshole never lays a finger on you,_ until Henry calmed and the two of them could curl into the depression of the sofa. He lay pliantly as Henry settled into him. It took him forever to fell asleep and Patrick even longer. He was gone when Patrick woke up the next morning and they never spoke of it again.

Henry scoffed. “I don’t let him touch me. Lay off it.” Patrick had to supress a grin.

There was nothing else to say. For all the long nights that the two of them spent around here at the junkyard, when Vic and Belch were too busy or asleep, they never really spent a lot of time _talking_. It was one thing when all of them were here, and they could talk shit about school, and moan about their lives – Belch about his job, Henry about the farm, Vic about his parents, and Patrick about whatever topic the others could at least tolerate – but the two of them could just sit in silence and it was comfortable. Henry would stick it out as long as he was able to ignore the cold creeping into his bones, obstinately refusing to make the long walk back to his father, trying to leech warmth from the sputtering fire, and Patrick would watch him shiver. He imagined he could feel the two of them slowly inching towards each other as the night would grow colder. He’d clap his hand on Henry’s shoulder and giggle at how he jerked away from it. Sometimes he would offer to walk Henry home, and sometimes he would accept.

But he didn’t do that today. Not because of any particular reason, except that maybe it was too hot to make any walk that far, and he was feeling incredibly content. Henry made it clear that they were done here, abruptly leaving to make his way of the junkyard without a word, running his fingers through his hair. Most likely disappointed that he would be making the way home by himself. Patrick wasn’t offended that he never got a goodbye or a thanks – he had no reason to be – so he just stared after him silently. It took a while for him to leave, listening to the guttural cry of the birds behind him, gazing blankly at the flies that settled on his leg. He’d probably wander around the Barrens for some hours, maybe make his way to town when he got bored, before finally retiring to the garage when he got hungry. Either way, he wasn’t fussed. He felt good; the best part of the day had passed, and Patrick had partaken in it fully.

\- - -

Patrick decided that he was going to confront Beverly about this whole business in the same abstract, casual way that he decided to do anything. It took him days of prowling the empty halls shortly after class had started, eyes and ears peeled, before he found her at her locker, entirely alone, head down and moving without haste. They were both late enough that the corridors didn’t even have any stragglers there to eavesdrop. It took a significant amount of effort and self-awareness for him to approach silently enough that she didn’t notice him until he was practically breathing down her neck. It wasn’t necessary to do this – but there was nothing like the element of surprise to lend him the upper hand in any given situation. He briefly wondered if he should just drop the pretence and make himself seen normally; but then she yelped in horror, and he was reminded of how satisfying all this was, even if the return on his investment lasted only seconds.

He was proud of being able to scare anyone like this; it had taken years of practice, creeping up on painfully aware and skittish animals, wasting hours in the shadowy dead-end alleys behind shop fronts, frustration building in him painfully as every rat, cat and bird raced away as he neared to within a metre of them. But it was all worth it when he could grasp his reward in his hands, a warm glow spreading within him as he felt the strong wings of the pigeon flap around his hands fruitlessly, ignoring the harsh scratching of its talons against his fingers. These were strong rock doves, not some skinny little runts, and it took all his strength to keep it in place.

She turned to face him, her breathing ragged, crossing her arms across her middle defensively, leaning tentatively against the cool metal behind her. He raised a hand in greeting.

She cleared her throat, swallowing thickly. “Do you want something?” There was a tremor in her voice.

He shrugged casually. “Not sure. Do you think there’s something I should want?”

She frowned in confusion, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so? Why are you here, if there’s nothing you want?”

He smiled lightly. “I never said I didn’t. I asked if there’s anything I _should_ want.” He let the words hang in the air between them.

Realisation briefly crossed her features, but it was swiftly overwritten by blank apprehension. Her eyes darted uneasily, making sure not to settle on his form. She wasn’t used to being confronted directly, face to face – most of the girls that tormented her did it from an arm’s length away. Patrick supposed that him, initiating a conversation on his lonesome, must have been untrodden ground, dark and unfamiliar; she must have felt like she was wading through a quagmire. Though that was fine with him; it made everything more fun.

She blinked rapidly before she replied. “Is this about what I think it is?”

He let her see the smile spread wider over his face. “I think that you know the answer to that, Beverly.”

And the way her features shifted from impassive to nervous fear was _thrilling._ He felt his heart doing cartwheels, beating hard with joy. He could have laughed.

“I didn’t see anything! I promise. I was looking away the whole time!” She paused, a pleading look in her eyes. “And I’ll never tell anyone, I swear to God.”

It was entirely possible that she thought he would leave it there – or that this was what it was all about, anyway. And he doubted she had guessed that he knew she had been staring the whole time; or maybe she was trying to delude herself into believing it.

He waved a hand dismissively. He was still grinning. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

She blinked frantically. “Really?”

“Yeah. I know you saw it all.” Her mouth opened, probably in amazement; he quickly continued before she could interrupt. “And I also know you’re not going to tell anyone. And I’m not going to do anything to you because of it.”

She frowned, expression disbelieving. Clearly, she didn’t trust him. It irked him – sometimes he wished people would just _believe_ him, especially when he was telling the truth. It would make the execution of some of his plans a lot easier.

She shifted uncomfortably against the locker. “Are you being serious?”

“Swear on it.”

“Then why are you here?”

He leaned in closer, invading her personal space, watching as she pressed her back into the metal uncomfortably to retreat from him. “I wanted to ask what you thought about it.”

Beverly’s eyes widened, nose crinkling in disgust. Forgetting herself, she looked straight into Patrick’s eyes; he let his expression stay unreadable. “What?”

“You heard me. What did you think about it?” He made his voice breathy and soft. She was clutching the folds of her skirt, her lip trembling just slightly. They were so close that he could smell her flowery perfume. “Did you _like_ it?”

Abruptly, she jerked away from him. He let her, not wanting to anger her enough so that she would hit him, or yell for someone. “ _What_ did you say _?”_ she hissed, indignantly. The rising anger amused him; it reminded him so much of Henry. But he just rolled his eyes.

“What are you, dumb? Did you _like_ it, seeing Henry and me like that?”

“No!” she insisted, face screwing up uglily. It didn’t bother him that she was lying. It was only natural; surely, he couldn’t expect everyone to have the reaction he wanted from them all the time. But the irritation still rose in his chest, spreading over him like ice.

“Is that why you were watching us the whole time?” he demanded, pressing harder.

“I wasn’t!” she replied hotly. He raised his eyebrows. “And if I _was_ , it was only to see when you were leaving!”

He nodded thoughtfully. She probably didn’t even realise how close she had been to them, fiery red hair poking out through the bushes; she didn’t even know how _lucky_ she was that Henry had been too busy wallowing in his own self-hatred to notice her. Which meant that she hadn’t seen Patrick had been watching her every move. He almost giggled; had she been that focused on Henry?

“But weren’t you even a little interested? I mean, Henry doing something like _that,_ it’s not something you would expect to see, huh?” He kept his eyes on her, watching her shift uncomfortably.

“I suppose so,” she admitted through gritted teeth, “I suppose it _was_ quite a weird thing to see.”

“I mean, if I had been in your place, I would have watched it. There’s no shame in it.” He tried a slightly different approach. He had learned to use gentleness to his advantage from his animals. Most were quite simple at their core, really; none of them could resist some fresh food and a stroke of their pelt. But he didn’t like it. He only used it if all else failed.

“Okay, I watched, then,” she spat out, sounding exasperated tinged with uncertain. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Can I go now?”

He tittered lightly. She couldn’t think that little show of aggression would fool him.

“But aren’t you curious?” he pushed further, testing the waters. He knew with Henry, that it would be easy to scare her away if he dove in too deep, too fast. “Why he would do something like that, I mean.”

She scoffed, but stayed put. Acting cool and uninterested, assured in a way she would never be if he wasn’t alone.

“I’ll tell you. It’s because his dad beats on him, all the time. Sometimes it’s for stuff he’s done badly, and he wants to get him punished; but sometimes it’s just ‘cause he’s mad from work. Or drunk.” He licked his lips. He had never said all this out loud; the words felt strange in his mouth. “And if it’s just a little thing, like a few bruises, he goes out and beats on some little twerps. But if it’s big and painful, like it was when you saw us, he comes to _me._ And I make him feel better. Or I don’t, and he goes out to pick fights anyway. But that’s _after_ he comes to me.”

It wasn’t entirely true; Henry came to him for other reasons. When Vic and Belch were busy, and he had a story to tell, a bottle of alcohol to share, or he needed someone to carry out his more convoluted riots with. And Patrick thought that was fine, because he liked those events well enough; but he was just as good at getting Henry to do whatever he, himself, had in mind. Henry sometimes didn’t even know the game had shifted until it was too late to back out. But there were quieter moments, too, when Henry came to him knowing exactly what he wanted, what he _needed._ But he would rather cut his own tongue out than ever say what it was that he wanted to do. So Patrick, naturally, took the lead. And he didn’t mind that.

But Beverly didn’t need to know about that.

She was curious now, listening intently despite looking down disinterestedly at the ground.

“And the crazy thing is that he _likes_ it. You saw that yourself, he loves it! More than he could with any girl. And that’s with _me_ that he loves it so much.”

He bit his tongue. He was saying too much. This was why he couldn’t ever let himself talk freely like this; his tongue ran ahead of his brain. This was one thing he didn’t have under control, at least yet.

Her eyes widened. “Do you mean that he’s…”

There was a hesitation between them.

“I never said that,” Patrick replied easily. Though he figured he didn’t need to.

“And are _you…_ ” she continued, trailing off again.

“That’s not what this is about.”

They basked in the uneasy silence after his words. It took many long seconds later before it was broken by Beverly. Patrick wasn’t going to offer up anything more himself.

“But aren’t you scared?”

He frowned. Where was this going? He hadn’t expected to be surprised like this. “What do you mean?”

She recoiled from the sudden hostility in his tone. He cursed himself again. It was always too easy to lose control in unfamiliar situations like these. “I mean, of Henry. And his dad, I suppose. If he ever found out, what he’d do to you? Or just if anyone saw” She paused, nervous.

He laughed. This was fine. It was more innocuous than he had expected. “I’m fine. I can handle myself.” He looked at her curiously. “Why are you asking?”

“I dunno, why are you telling me all this? Can’t I ask about it?”

He shrugged. “Henry’s not gonna do anything. If he did, I could just tell everyone about him. He’d probably never show his face in town again. And his dad would _kill_ him.” He looked away slightly dreamily. That was one of his most frequent fantasies, always asking himself _what would Henry do if you told on him?_ But he wasn’t that impulsive. He could control himself when something so great was on the line. “And besides, I think he _does_ actually enjoy it. So he wouldn’t say anything. Or hurt me too badly.”

Beverly looked slightly disgusted. He couldn’t see what was so weird about it. She didn’t probe any further.

They waited in awkward silence. Beverly was the first to break it. “I’d never thought Henry to be like _that_ , you know.”

Patrick nodded slowly, not responding. He had to agree; he had only found out by chance, sheer daring chance. He had to thank his impulses for that, combined with the luck that Henry _hadn’t_ beaten him to a pulp, thrown him six feet under and pissed on his grave right after he did it. That was what he loved about Henry; he’d _come back._

It was dawning on both of them that their time here was drawing to a close. Beverly swallowed thickly. “I’m gonna go, yeah? I promise, again, that I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“You know what would happen if you did, anyway, right?”

She was breathing shallowly. “Henry would beat me up? And tell my dad that everyone thinks I’ve done… _it_ with him?”

“And other people.” Patrick corrected, leering slightly. “At least twenty, last time I counted.” He watched Beverly seethe with anger. It was funny to watch. He didn’t really believe it; no one probably really did, definitely not any of the older kids. But that didn’t stop him from trying to rile her up about it.

He tilted his chin up. He was getting distracted. “You’re right. But _I_ would also probably do something.”

She scrunched her nose. “Really? Why?”

This was the thing he hated about the people around him, they never _understood._ Understood how difficult and arduous some of the tasks that he carried out were. His parents’ resigned disappointment at the fly traps arranged in delicate patterns around the garage, sniffling with disgust at the reeking vinegar where more could meet their demise. Even now, he kept the yellowy paper that had lost its stickiness up, as a sort of fond souvenir. Vic’s bemused expression when he’d shown him the magical fridge for the first time; that had been years ago, and the expression had never really gone away. Belch’s rolled eyes when he described his _theories_ that it seemed only he could _really fucking see._ But, since it was Belch, he hadn’t been too offended by that. And he couldn’t _really_ expect anyone else to understand them.

But the one that had really hurt, had stung like glass, was Henry’s bored, unappreciative face, scrunched and only half-listening. He hated it more than anyone else’s. And all Henry did was continually and perpetually _underestimate_ him, as if every fucking action that they had ever taken hadn’t been _fucking orchestrated_ by Patrick, himself; and he would make Henry see, one day, he really would. He would make the whole world see, and no one would _ever_ look at him like Beverly was, here; doubt and incredulity mixed in some sort of sick concoction. He just wanted to take a switchblade to her face and wipe the expression away.

“Because I don’t really want Henry to stop doing stuff with me. And he _definitely_ would, if you told.” He didn’t feel like he needed to say more than that.

She gave him a terse nod. “Well, I’m not going to,” she reiterated. “And I’m leaving now,” she announced.

Patrick watched as she started to move away from him. He let it happen, not lifting a muscle. “One more thing,” he called after her retreating form. She didn’t turn to look at him. “You never answered my question. Did you enjoy it?”

She paused in her tracks, her arms poised stiffly. He waited to see if she would turn around, stare silently or maybe shout angrily at him to leave her alone. She’d obviously deny it, no matter what. But it seemed he had put her through enough for one day, because she just inhaled deeply, and continued on her way.

He chuckled to himself as checked his watch. Class had started a long time ago; it was too late for him to bother attending. Maybe he would sit on the front step and smoke a cigarette. Wait around for the break and see if there was anything else to do. Or he could go home. No one cared where he went, anyway.

He wondered, however, if he should stick around just so that Henry and he could meet. They could do something together; skip school and run around, go down to Patrick’s empty house, or even make their way to the privacy of the countryside. He imagined Henry letting him kiss him for hours, and then them going from there; anything was possible, after this.

And his head was still swimming with all those pleasant thoughts as he walked away from Beverly’s locker and out of the school.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a quote from Franz Kafka's "Meditation", specifically the short story "Children on the Country Road".
> 
> Please keep in mind that I wrote this from the characters' perspectives, and that lot of the conclusions they come to is based on their own biased worldview, and should be taken with a grain of salt. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback is much appreciated.


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